


The Longest Nights

by kauzchen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asexual Cole, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Gen, Jealousy, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kauzchen/pseuds/kauzchen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cole knows how to keep nightmares at bay when the nights are long; Cullen struggles to understand. Inquisitor Trevelyan, as ever, just can't catch a break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Longest Nights

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a prompt on the DA kmeme and has been edited some. Original: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/10859.html?thread=45655403#t45655403

The leather of Cullen's thick gloves creaked altogether too loudly. He stood still and stiff in the doorway of the inquisitor's large, empty quarters, one hand on the heavy wooden door and the other frozen near his thigh. In a way that was not unfamiliar but certainly unwelcome, his heart pounded.  
  
If this had been any other situation—perhaps any day that  _wasn't_  today, at  _this_  moment, where surely his eyes were deceiving him—he might have felt embarrassed. The inquisitor lay in just a loose, long grey tunic and woolen socks. The shirt pulled up at her right hip to show a frankly indecent amount of bare skin and the strap of whatever she wore underneath that ugly thing. Her hair was a mess, clearly the product of rolling around in her sleep or while very, very awake _;_  the spaces around her closed eyes were smudged smoky and black from unwashed makeup; her lips looked positively swollen, pink and moist and maddening. To have walked into her room and stumbled upon her like this, still sleeping and totally unaware of how and  _how long_  he stared at her, would normally have sent him backpedaling swiftly into the main hall, redder in the face and stiffer in the spine than was usual.  
  
Today, though...   
  
This morning, when the sun had yet to rise and the forgotten stubs of candles colored her and the companion in her bed in soft orange hues...  
  
Who, then? His hand clenched into a fist even as it rested—still rested—against the inquisitor's door. The repeated sound of leather on leather was deafening, but neither party on the large, drab Free Marcher bed stirred. Who had enthralled her, and right from under his nose? Not that he'd claimed her or ever, ever entertained the notion that he held any  _right_  to her, but gossip spread fast at Skyhold, and surely anybody who was listening—and oh, did they listen—knew about Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan and her steadfast Commander Cullen. Were they some random face? Someone he knew personally? Worse than who,  _why?_  Had he done something wrong? Had she grown bored of him? Hurt, sharp and hot, twisted through his belly. What a fool he was, to assume she'd want from him what he wanted from her. A thousand thoughts clouded his mind, each darker than the last, lashing chains around his limbs to keep him firmly rooted to the spot. A chill swept past him, though he couldn't be sure if he was imagining it or not.  
  
Movement on the bed drew him away from his malaise, and before he could retreat, he heard his name. Soft, welcoming, unafraid: "Cullen?"  
  
She sounded as if she hadn't a care in the world. He refused to look at the couple, staring instead out of her tall windows, at the way the sky began to lighten. It would be cloudy today. He cleared his throat, tried to affect a stern, knowing tone. "I-I am here." Failed. From the corner of his eye, he saw her sit up and make some idle movements. As hard as he tried, he could not stop himself from glancing toward her, toward the person-shaped lump sleeping soundly beside her.  
  
"Is everything alright?" She sounded more alert now. Wondering at her next move, or if she'd even provide him an explanation, he looked fully to her. She appeared genuinely confused, at least, with her brow pressed into a worried furrow.   
  
"Perfectly," he said, though the wind rather left his sails as she began to stand and approach him. This was, first and foremost, because that awful, hideous, somewhat-too-big tunic framed her hips and breasts in interesting ways…but also because, with her standing up, he could see the bed behind her very clearly. And he could see that it was empty.

For the briefest moment, he doubted his sanity, scrutinizing the tangle of blankets and sheets that had once unmistakably been another person. The inquisitor turned to look at her bed as well and then back at him, inclining her head and raising an eyebrow. Before she could even form the question, Cullen took her gently by the cheek and pressed a kiss to her lips. With his hand finally away from the door, it closed on a great groan that mirrored his own relief.   
  
"I'm sorry," he said, voice low, hoping she wouldn't press the issue. "I...didn't mean to wake you, is all." She leaned against him, her arms a warm pressure at his back, and he spared one more glance at her bed—empty—and the rest of her bedroom—as undisturbed as ever—before submitting to the comfort of her touch.  


* * *

 

  
The topic of the inquisitor's imagined companion did not plague him much, partially because he chalked it up to a lyrium-fueled fever, but mostly because he was kept quite occupied in the weeks following. Skyhold seemed positively bustling now, and everywhere he stepped he seemed to stumble over a wayward recruit or tittering noble. Naturally, he spent most of this time either poring over reports in his office or studying the war table carefully. He saw very little of the inquisitor and he imagined the days to come would follow this pattern. It was necessary, of course, and he didn't prefer it, but he  _did_  like what this meant for the Inquisition. With the inquisitor consistently gone on important missions and keeping her advisors and all other charges busy as bees, their influence grew steadily each and every day.  
  
The pains of staying off of lyrium came and went and he managed it fairly well on his own. Cassandra checked up with him periodically, which he was more than grateful for, and so far he'd only been cursed with a few minor headaches and sleep troubles. Now, sadly, seemed to be the worst he'd had so far: a migraine that jabbed at his temples and made his jaw ache. He pressed his hand to his forehead, sighing deeply. Though normally drafty, the room suddenly felt stifling. The fur at his collar choked him mercilessly, and he tugged at it with his free hand.  
  
After fumbling lamely for a few more moments, he tore off his coat in a fit of frustration, growing twenty times more agitated when it snagged on his pauldrons. He threw it atop his desk, scattering a few scrolls of blank paper. His mood fell apart with just that, and he found himself thinking back to what he'd seen in the inquisitor's room—the person lying beside her, tucked into her, clear as day. He forced himself to remember every tiny detail. The inquisitor's arm had been draped over that other person, hugging, embracing. A picture of something disheveled and vaguely yellow stuck out to him, and he clung to the image, desperately piecing it together. Despite the fact that he'd debunked the idea a thousand times in his head, he revisited the possibility that her secret lover had fled while he'd been staring wistfully through her windows, or when he'd simply been drowning in his own thoughts. But he'd have heard them, surely, unless they were exceedingly light on their feet. Stealthy. Totally invisible, if they wanted to be.  
  
Panic, unbidden and once-forgotten, began to trace his veins. Blonde, unkempt, fast but sneaky—  
  
A small commotion drew his attention. He'd somehow paced and fretted his way all the way outside and onto the deserted battlements overlooking Skyhold's front gates, and from his high perch, he could see what the fuss was about below. Inquisitor Trevelyan and her small accompaniment had returned from the Western Approach, looking dusty and near-dead. The inquisitor's mount was drenched in sweat, and it whinnied nervously and pawed at the ground as its rider— _riders?_ —dismounted.

He heard shouting and saw a small froth of people surrounding the returned warriors. Cassandra handed the reins of the horse off to someone in the crowd and barked a few unintelligible orders. Solas looked on from the rear, light robes stained a darker color in familiar patterns of crimson. The inquisitor slumped where she stood but was caught by a tow-colored flash, faster than either Solas or Cassandra could ever react.  
  
Cullen took the steps down two at a time and was at the gates in seconds.  
  
"What happened?" he demanded, all of his previous frustrations channeled into making his voice sound as authoritative as possible. The crowd began to murmur and dissipate as Cassandra led the battered away team into Skyhold's courtyard.  
  
"Venatori," Cassandra sneered, as if it should have been the most obvious thing in the universe. "The inquisitor was hurt. More than usual." She didn't seem all that concerned—more annoyed, really—and that was reassuring, but Cullen still felt almost paralyzed with dread. The feelings compounded and his headache returned full-swing when the inquisitor and her living crutch stepped out from behind Cassandra and a small throng of onlookers.  
  
She looked absolutely fine, thank the Maker, save for a bruise the size of a fist swelling over her left cheek and a leg that appeared badly injured. She gave him a weary smile, one that told him they'd speak later, preferably once she'd seen the healers and the surgeon. That, at least, took care of his fear for her safety.  
  
What remained, then, was the filthy blonde rogue holding her upright. The same filthy blonde rogue who may have been in the inquisitor's bed several weeks prior. Who could easily have fled under the cover of darkness when he'd been distracted. Who garnered mostly negative attention and had nestled themselves snugly in the Skyhold tavern.  
  
Sera snorted at him, catching his stare and squinting incredulously, even as the inquisitor flagged tiredly under her steady hands. "You look all  _deflated_  without that puffy robe, yeah?"  


* * *

 

  
He'd been writing absolutely nonstop since the inquisitor's return. She needed rest and medical attention and definitely did not need a paranoid lover questioning her loyalties and who she did or didn't have in her bed. So Cullen put his quill to paper and pounded out a dozen responses to a dozen queries, filling reports and signing off on armory requests for more drakestone, more nugskin, more whatever, etcetera, ad nauseam.   
  
He tried so feverishly to put the thought out of his head—the inquisitor and  _Sera,_  rolling about in her bed, hugging, cuddling, meeting clandestine and secretive and trying to keep it away from oblivious Commander Cullen—but he was failing so miserably. Every time he signed a document, he thought of Sera's lips on the inquisitor's. Every time he rolled a parchment, he thought of bow-callused fingers over heavy breasts. And every time he stamped an official Inquisition seal, he thought of the inquisitor crying softly to whatever rhythm Sera could drum up between full, strong thighs. It was maddening. It was torturous to think about, to not know, to—  
  
"It's not like that."  
  
Cullen's written sentence ended with an abrupt and rather unofficial slash of ink that nearly tore the paper. The voice was almost a whisper, coming from the darkest corner of his office, where the light of his candles could not reach. But he knew it well enough. "What are you doing here, Cole?"  
  
Cole did not move. "What you're thinking. It's wrong. Girlish giggling and so much guile, soft and softer but not as soft for you."  
  
Cullen slammed his quill on the desk and stood, glaring at the dark shape that was Cole, embarrassment and shame making his face hot. "You are not to  _appear_  like this and...and read people's thoughts. Leliana  _told_  you—"

"I didn't  _appear._  I've been here."  
  
"—that you are not entitled to free roam of Skyhold,” he continued, as though the boy hadn’t spoken. “That includes my quarters." He pointed toward the door. "You need to leave."  
  
"You shouldn't be worried," Cole insisted quietly. "Sharing, yes. Many things. Cookies, a roof, a dagger, but not a bed. Never a bed."  
  
"Go." His voice nearly cracked.  
  
Cole seemed to falter under this, clearly torn between wanting to continue his reassurances and not wanting to cause Cullen any more trouble. He moved from the shadows presently, though, frowning. "You shouldn't be worried," he repeated. "Please don't be." And on a breath, in a blink, he was gone.  


* * *

 

  
Hours later, when the anger and humiliation had subsided, after several late-night walks and more than a few internal pep-talks, Cullen admitted to himself that Cole's words helped. If anyone knew the secret going-ons of Skyhold, it was Cole. To hear, perhaps not quite so explicitly but at the very least confidently, that Sera and the inquisitor had never shared a bed put his mind to rest.  
  
Cullen sighed and leaned against cold stone wall just outside the inquisitor's quarters. The main hall was completely empty, and the fires in the massive hearths had burned down to mere embers. It was dark and quiet, a small storm was rolling in, and it was the perfect night for a surprise visit.   
  
He just wanted to see her. No more suspicions. No more distrust. She'd been hurt today, and he'd been worried, and with the issue of his jealousy and paranoia out of the way, he felt he could finally face her and return things to  _normal._  The wind howled outside and urged him on, up through the stairway and toward her inner chambers. He thought about knocking but decided against it for fear of waking her. It was late, after all, and it was likely she was fast asleep, recuperating from her injuries.  
  
When he entered her room this time, not so unlike the last time he’d done so, it was nearly pitch black. A dying fire gave only the smallest hint of light. Cullen made out vague shapes—her writing desk, the windows, her bed, and her atop it. He heard soft murmuring as he moved toward the bed, smiling at the thought of her talking in her sleep. He knew little of her sleep habits, truthfully, having spent precious few nights with her, so he was glad to be privy to one of them.  
  
He removed his gloves and touched her shoulder with his bare hand, feeling her naked skin under his touch. She was cold, frightfully so, and he withdrew quickly. He strained his eyes in the dim light, scanning over her figure. The fire may have been burned down, but the room was still warm—so much so that Cullen himself was sweating in his heavy armor and cloak. “Herald?” he began unsteadily, his voice quiet, suddenly worried that the night would involve less sweet nothings and more surgeon visits than first anticipated. The inquisitor awoke on a muffled noise of confusion.  
  
It may have been dark, but the person who sat up in bed to stare at him drowsily was  _not_  his inquisitor.  
  
“What—“ he started before he could think or even really react at all. He expected this mystery person to scramble out of bed, to make a run for it, or to at least  _move,_  but they didn’t. They sat perfectly still and content, staring up at him through the darkness. Cullen struggled to piece together what he could actually see of them: bare chest, broad shoulders, somewhat thin build, and with light-colored hair that obscured most of their face. For the second time in a month, Cullen thought he might be going mad.  _”Cole?”_  
  
“Yes,” Cole responded, sounding perfectly at ease. Beside him, another figure moved, pushing themselves up to a sitting position.  
  
“Cullen?” The inquisitor’s voice was hoarse from sleep and she sounded on the verge of death. Cullen almost felt bad for waking her before remembering that a  _Fade spirit_  was  _half naked_  in her bed. While he grasped desperately for the right words to start this conversation—a conversation he never in a thousand centuries would have thought might involve Cole—the inquisitor lit a candle on her bedside table with an ease that could come only from repetition.

Not knowing what else to do, Cullen pulled his gloves back on. He could see them both in perfect clarity now. Cole sat staring innocently at him, his hair a wicked mess, his shirt missing but still wearing pants, thankfully. The inquisitor wore that same oversized, ugly grey tunic, though it appeared to have gained a crude set of stitches over the right bicep since last she wore it. She looked, if he were to be totally honest, like absolute hell. The entire left side of her face was purple-black, her eye almost closed from the swelling. A bright red burn—from fire magic, just as a quick superficial guess—swirled over what he could see of her collarbone and neck. They both appeared freshly bathed, in any case, which was not something one could often say was the case with Cole.  
  
The inquisitor, at least, looked mildly embarrassed. “This…”  
  
Cullen cleared his throat and turned his eyes away. “You don’t need to explain.” He wanted to add,  _”Why_ Cole, _of all people?"_  but thought better of it. If it were any other person, literally any other person, he’d be outraged, hurt, betrayed, would possibly even be storming out of the room and vowing to never fall for heroes ever again. The only emotion he could accurately name, however, was confusion.  
  
“It’s not confusing,” Cole helpfully supplied, raising a hand to sweep his bangs to the left. The thin, ropy muscles in his arm flexed as he did so, and when he rested his hands back in his lap, Cullen couldn’t help but notice just how large they were. Cole may have been a spirit once, or still was, perhaps, but he was also a man. And apparently the inquisitor knew this fact very well. “She was sad. Hurting. I helped.”  
  
Cullen felt sick.  
  
“No,” the inquisitor corrected quickly, scrambling out of bed. Again, she wore only thick socks in favor of anything more modest. Upon trying to stand, her leg gave out, and she crumpled against the bed on a strangled noise. Cullen moved to her side automatically, guiding her back to a sitting position. She drew in a sharp breath and continued. “It’s not like  _that.”_  Her voice was strained, pained, and Cole cocked his head at the sound.  
  
It certainly  _looked_  like  _that,_  but Cullen couldn’t bring himself to even scoff at her explanation. He glanced down at her leg, wrapped tightly in bandages and stained faintly red. “Those need to be changed,” he mumbled, the first thought that came to him.  
  
She waved at his worries, wincing as she covered herself with the heavy blanket. “In the morning. We need to address this.”  
  
“That’s not necessary,” Cullen said quickly, words falling from his mouth before he could think to restrain himself. “I understand. We aren’t…we never…” He looked to Cole, half expecting the spirit to be gone or replaced by a conveniently person-shaped pile of blanket, but the young man remained, looking patiently on. Could he actually read minds? Could he will him to leave just by thinking about? It couldn’t hurt to try.  
  
“You’re misunderstanding,” the inquisitor said sternly, taking hold of Cullen’s forearm as he began to draw away. “It’s nothing like what it seems.” She squeezed fingers tight against his skin, concern drawing her features tight. “It’s just…strange.”  
  
Cullen gave her a sympathetic look. Their lives had been nothing  _but_  strange since their first meeting at Haven. He didn’t want to believe that she was sleeping with Cole, sexually or otherwise, but he struggled to grasp some other explanation. “I thought it would be Sera,” he admitted, distantly.  
  
The inquisitor looked about to speak or laugh or both, but Cole cut her off jovially with: “I told you it wasn’t.”  
  
“Yes, well, you never said it was  _you,_  either,” Cullen groused, carefully pulling his arm away from the inquisitor’s grip.   
  
“But we weren’t doing any of  _that,”_  Cole pushed, standing up, still atop the bed, as if it were completely natural. “Heavy hearts, heavy breaths, hands and fingers and mouths and tongues—“  
  
“Cole,” the inquisitor admonished softly, glancing sidelong at him. Cole seemed to glean some meaning from this that Cullen did not, because he slowly stepped off of her bed to stand opposite of Cullen. “I think perhaps you should leave now. Cullen and I need to speak privately.”

Cole didn’t appear crestfallen or even really bothered by this. He made a word of assent and looked expectantly at the inquisitor, who flinched as if remembering something unpleasant. “I think I should wear my shirt,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s raining.”  
  
Swiftly, and without so much as a moment’s thought, she pulled the ugly tunic up over her head. She wore simple brown bindings underneath, slightly weathered but appearing comfortable and practical. She tossed the shirt to Cole, who slipped it on, tucked it into his leather leggings, and left the room without another word.  
  
And that left the two of them, alone, with her half naked and Cullen himself sweating under his thick clothing. He wanted to admire what he saw of her body, turn this evening around and forget all about what had transpired, if she would have it, but he knew that plan would be doomed to fail. He’d think on her and Cole in the darkest nights, the quietest hours, when he had no company save for his headaches and thoughts. He looked to the empty place in the bed where Cole had once rested, at the burn on her neck, slick and shiny from a healing salve, at the grossly deformed side of her face.   
  
Cullen sighed from deep within his chest and took a careful seat on the end of her bed, wary of the placement of her injured leg. “So you and Cole are not…?”  
  
The inquisitor looked for a split second as if she might be angry, but it passed quickly and was replaced by consternation. “Of course not.” She rubbed her neck, opposite of where her burn lay. “I know this looks bad, and I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me, but…” Her voice left her and she lifted her eyes to his face. “I wouldn’t do that. Not while I’m with you. Not with anybody.” She seemed to consider something for a moment. “Especially not with Cole.”  
  
He huffed, finally shrugging out of his cloak and draping it ceremoniously across her oak footboard. “If I can ask, what exactly was he doing in here, then? And the time before this?” He narrowed his eyes. “How _many_ times before this?”  
  
She fidgeted at this, glancing away from him. “Most nights, really.”  
  
He recoiled.  _”Most nights?”_  
  
“I needed his help,” she rushed. “He came to me one night sometime after Haven, and he knew I was suffering. He said he could help, and he did.”  
  
“What did he do? What do you two do…together?”  
  
Either she outright refused to look at him now, or there was something truly fascinating about the far corner of her room. “Nothing sexual.”  
  
“Then what? He just sleeps in your bed?”  
  
“Sometimes. Not usually. I just…we  _cuddle.”_  She hunched her shoulders and looked even further away from him, her face coloring fantastically. “It helps, alright? I’m not invincible. I get nightmares and fears and he knows that and he knows how to take them away.”  
  
Any inkling of anger, any lingering sting of betrayal drained from Cullen in that moment, drawn away by the frustration and desperation in his herald’s voice. She curled in upon herself, drawing her good leg up to her chest. The inquisitor was not a small woman—she nearly reached his eyebrows and was of a height with Solas—but here she looked so vulnerable that he couldn’t help but reach out to her. He rested his hand gently on her ankle, staying silent until she finally drew her gaze back to him.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “It seems inappropriate, in retrospect. But I never meant it as such. I don’t see Cole like that—like how I see you.”

His stomach turned nervously, excitedly, and he managed a smile for her. “You don’t have to apologize. I only wish you’d told me sooner about your nightmares.” He withdrew his hand to grab his cloak and hand it to her, which she accepted graciously. She immediately drew her arms through it. The way she discretely nuzzled into the fur at the collar made him feel exponentially warmer. “I can help in ways that Cole cannot.”  
  
Her lips twisted into a devious grin, and he swallowed thickly. “I mean—“ he corrected quickly, throat suddenly parched, “not like—I meant perhaps—“  
  
She reached for his hand and tugged him closer, forcing him to crawl nearly on top of her, one knee between her legs. He was sure she could see the sweat shimmering on his brow and neck, and the way his cloak covered the exact right amount of her skin made him dizzy. “What ways can you help, commander?” she teased, voice low, her hands running slowly over the cool metal of his armor. Her fingers found his broad leather belt and she began to unbuckle it.  
  
“I-I have experience with…with—“ He was cut short when she began undoing the knots for his armor as well, expertly untying them and then slipping her hands underneath to touch his bare skin. He flinched when she ghosted over his hipbones, feeling dumb and lame and unsure of how to proceed. “How best can I…?”  
  
“Help?” she finished for him, barely more than a whisper. “You can start by taking off your boots.”  
  
He jumped up at this, hastily removing his muddy boots and apologizing all the way. His breastplate hung loosely across his chest. “I’d forgotten—“  
  
“The armor as well.”  
  
He did as bid, unfastening every piece and letting it fall to the rug with a noisy clatter. She watched him the entire time, slipping her hands behind her back to work on something of her own. He returned to her as she removed the bindings over her breasts, smiling. And yet still she wore his cloak, her hair falling against the fur and the cloth falling against her skin in a way that was maddening. Cullen pressed a hand into her side and lowered his lips to the unmarred side of her neck.  
  
She drew a sharp intake of breath and lifted hips against his, tugging at his shirt. He took the hint and pulled it off, but quickly returned to his previous task.  
  
“And you thought I could do this with anyone else?” she asked, breathless and vaguely incredulous.  
  
“The thought crossed my mind.” His voice, in contrast, was heavy, too breathy, ragged.  
  
She hummed, wriggling out of her underwear while he parted each end of the cloak she wore to palm her breasts. “Why would I ever do this with anyone but you, Cullen?”  
  
He laughed softly, desire consuming his hesitance and reproach until all that was left was his need to slide inside of her and make her never even  _consider_  sharing a bed with anyone else—in any sense of the word. He shifted his weight a bit to remove what remained of his clothing, and she gasped in a way that was all pain. He stilled.  
  
“My leg,” she said in explanation, wincing as he lifted off of her. “We…will need to be careful.”  
  
He frowned, looking down at her bloodied bandages and swollen calf. He ached for her, but now was not the time. And he would never compromise her physical comfort just for  _this,_  no matter how much he wanted it. Perhaps a bit forlornly, he said, “We will need to _wait.”_  
  
She crossed her arms obstinately. “Let’s not get hasty, now—“

“Precisely.” He blew out her bedside candle and claimed the other side of her bed, just beside her, noting with only a twinge of annoyance that it was still warm from Cole. He pulled the blankets up over her as she relented, sliding down until her head was resting against her pillows. “There’s no need to be careless. You won’t be able to go on a mission for a while now, I suspect.”  
  
The inquisitor grumbled and turned carefully on her side to face him. “Cassandra commanded as much. You know Varric actually threatened to lock my door if I tried to leave? From the _outside?”_  
  
Cullen laughed, tentatively putting a hand on her hip. She shifted closer to him, face pressed into his bare chest, the fur on the cloak she still wore tickling him. “It’s for your own good. We need you alive and in working order.”  
  
She mumbled a few muffled protests but soon quieted, and her breathing began to steady until soon it was clear she was near sleep. Cullen kept an arm over her, reveling in the feel of her body against his, in the fact that it was now _his_ shirt she slept in and _his_ naked chest she cuddled into.   
  
Truly, he’d had no clue about the nightmares, and he felt slightly hurt that she hadn’t come to him first. But he did have his own problems, and his herald was the selfless sort. He couldn’t be angry at Cole, then, and in fact felt somewhat indebted to him. Cole knew her feelings and had reached out to help her, and it had apparently worked quite well. Could he help in the same way? Would sleeping with him yield the same effects?  
  
“You can stay here any time,” she said softly, and Cullen wondered if his silence had given him away. “It’s…nice.”  
  
If she wanted him to stay, he would happily take the invitation. He thought of his private quarters atop the battlements, the gaps in the stone walls and the way it sometimes leaked a bit during rainstorms, of his cold, sloppy bed, and couldn’t find a single reason to ever return to it. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “As you like.”  


* * *

 

  
Cole was in his office when Cullen did eventually return the next day, perched atop the heavy desk and swinging his legs idly. Cullen greeted him curiously.  
  
The spirit rose quickly, hat flopping at his sudden movement and loose papers fluttering behind him. “I didn’t know that would hurt you,” he rushed earnestly, worriedly. “I was confused. I spoke with Varric when I left. I told him everything.”  
  
Cullen groaned and rubbed his temples. “You told _Varric?”_  
  
“Yes,” Cole said, unapologetic. “He won’t remember. He told me why you were hurt. He said I should talk to you about it, but what should I say? She was very happy last night, after I left. You were happy, too. And Varric called you ’Curly.’ Why did he call you Curly?”  
  
“Maker only knows,” Cullen mumbled in response, pointedly not touching or drawing attention to his hair. He began to sift through documents on his desk, some bent or crumpled from Cole sitting on them.  
  
“Varric said you love her.”  
  
He stilled.  
  
“I loved once. A close friend. I think I love _her,_ too.” Cole stared intently at him, crystal-blue eyes partially obscured but focused, piercing, pinning.  
  
“You love the inquisitor?” Cullen asked carefully, slowly.  
  
“Perhaps.” Cole paced back and forth slowly, gaze never leaving Cullen’s. Then he stopped. “But not like you. Warmth, deep in your bones and rising in your throat, burning slow, slower—filling your head like so much smoke.”   
  
Cullen ignored him, embarrassed. He couldn’t deny it, didn’t really want to deny it, but hearing it said out loud was no less uncomfortable than thinking it.  
  
“Not like that. Not now,” Cole finished in a hushed tone, his voice a touch lighter than before. “You’re not upset anymore. Not since last night. Since _you_ helped her.”  
  
“Not at all,” Cullen admitted, taking a seat and dipping his quill in ink. He felt Cole staring at him and started in on his work, hoping the boy might take the hint and leave him be. He began reading over new missives and orders, lost in paperwork, and after a while, he forgot that Cole had even come to see him in the first place.  
  
When he looked up, the place where Cole had been was gone, and he found he was not quite sure what they had even been speaking about. Something about missing daggers and burning turnips? Seemed about right.  
  
With a muted grumble and a secret smile, Cullen signed his current document in a flowing script, set it aside to dry, and waited patiently for the day to end. He looked forward to the long night ahead of him.


End file.
